I was sitting at the kitchen island, eating my sandwich, minding my own business, not bothering no one, when Elder sauntered through the doorway.
“Mo-om,” he demanded. “Tell Dad that he can’t watch that particular show downstairs on the living room television any more.”
As the show was one to which I had raised previous objections for its idiocy and crassness, I merely shrugged. “I’ve tried.”
“Give him a stern talking to,” he encouraged.
“Use your angry voice,” Elder suggested. “I’m the only one that can withstand your angry voice.”
Jaw firming, I tilted my head. “Wait a minute,” I ordered, halting him as he circled back towards the doorway. “Are you saying you think I have an angry voice?”
“I don’t think it,” Elder replied. “I know it.”
And then he wandered carelessly from the room, completely unfazed by the darkening of my expression — the angry face that accompanies the angry voice.
I acquired the matched set soon after I taught that child to talk.